


Obvious

by moonblossom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkwardness, Drinking, Epiphany, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Mates, crisis of sexuality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-24 06:29:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's feelings for Sherlock are overwhelming, he needs to get out and clear his head. Thankfully Greg is always up for a pint and some advice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Let's Draw Sherlock Challenge 4: It's Always 1895](http://letswritesherlock.tumblr.com/post/57895078483/challenge-3-the-songfic-challenge-continues). Prompt was: _Write a fic that is exactly 1895 words long and ends with the word “obviously.”_
> 
> Note on the word count: Both ZenWriter and Google Drive counted this as 1895 words when I wrote it, but when I uploaded it to AO3 it read it as 1882. I have edited it to try to get the count here accurate, but who the fuck knows anymore.
> 
> Thanks to [startled](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aggressivewhenstartled) for looking this over and [lovey](http://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto) for convincing me to run with the title that I wanted to use.

Absently, John moves his glass and rubs the condensation ring under his pint off the table with his forefinger. The table is sticky with years of grime - the haze of old nicotine, spilt beer, aging varnish. He wipes his hand on a cocktail napkin just as Greg shows up.

"Hey, pull up a stool."

The DI cocks his head, salt-and-pepper hair catching the light, and John smiles. Greg's great sometimes. John's been so confused, so frustrated about Sherlock. All he'd done was send one quick text:

_Fancy a pint? Need to get my mind off things._

And now, here's Greg, all comfortable nods and frothy beer. No questions, no teasing. Grateful, John nods before taking a sip of his lager. Greg lowers himself onto the barstool with the creaks and groans of a man who works too much and too hard, and John elbows him gently.

"You need a day off, mate. You sound like a bowl of Rice Krispies."

Greg rolls his eyes, but laughs. "You're one to talk. You may not sound like you're falling apart, but those bags under your eyes... When was the last time you slept properly?"

John picks at the grimy miasma on the table with the edge of his thumbnail, pointedly not answering. Between chasing Sherlock, worrying about Sherlock, and pining for Sherlock, he hasn't had much time for a decent night's sleep lately, but he's not sure he's up to explaining all this to Greg.

Thankfully, Greg seems to know exactly what John needs right now. He's carrying a pint of Guinness for himself, and another pint of Boddies' for John. Perfect timing too, John lifts his glass and drains the last of it.

"You, sir, are an angel sent from Heaven. Ta."

"Figured you needed it. Whenever you're ready, rant away."

John nods, staring into the creamy foam of his drink. Bless Greg, not asking, not wheedling. For a while, they just sit there in companionable silence, nursing their pints of beer. The noise of the pub is a fuzzy, indistinct white noise in the background, and that suits John just fine right now. His mind's noisy enough.

Fuck, but he'd nearly kissed Sherlock. They'd been bickering about... _something_. John can't even remember what now. All he can remember is the flush on Sherlock's cheeks, staring transfixed at those obnoxious, gorgeous lips of his, and without even thinking, leaning forward and nearly fucking kissing him.

He sighs and stares down into the bottom of the glass. When had he emptied it? He turns to Greg, still sitting quietly next to him. Greg's glass is nearly empty too.

"This round's on me, mate."

Greg salutes with his empty glass and John carefully winds his way to the bar, refilling their orders. By the time he gets back to the table, John’s resolved to just blurt it out.

"Greg, you're straight, right?"

"Weelll..." There's a lot left unsaid in the grin and the shrug he gets back. John resolves to bring this up again at a later date, because Greg doesn't seem like he'd mind, but right now he's got more pressing matters to discuss.

John laughs, relaxed and loose as the booze starts doing its job, and holds up his hands in mock-surrender. "Okay, okay, forget I asked." He pauses, taking a long swig of the third pint. "Actually, my next question might be a bit easier to deal with, knowing that."

Greg bites his lip, looking apprehensive, and John chalks it up to the beer, until he opens his mouth. "Hey, John... listen, I'm flattered, but--"

"Oh, fuck no." John groans, burying his face in his hands to muffle his laughter. "No, no! Not that you're not a handsome man. But..." He grimaces, trying to salvage what's left of his courage.

"Christ, John, you get gullible when you get drinking. I know who you're asking about, and I know it's not me. Everyone knows."

They both turn to look vaguely in the direction of Baker Street, a few blocks away, and John snorts out another laugh.

"Everyone knows except me, you mean."

Greg, halfway through taking a mouthful of beer, splutters. "Christ, John. Did you really just figure it out? You must be the most emotionally unaware man I've ever known."

John just raises one eyebrow and looks back towards Baker Street, earning a laugh from Greg.

"Fair enough, second most emotionally unaware man."

Swaying slightly on his stool, John takes another gulp of beer.

"I'm not gay, Greg."

There's a comforting hand on John's arm, and a fresh pint of beer at his elbow. Where had that even come from? He's certainly not going to complain though, and tosses half of it back in one mouthful.

"You might want to slow down there, John."

"No." John knows he sounds petulant and whiny. Oddly like Sherlock. The thought makes him laugh again, but it's a nervous sound.

"Fine, fine. Not your dad. Or your husband." Greg shrugs in defeat.

John scowls. "Not. Gay."

"That doesn't actually mean anything, you know that, right? This sort of thing is fluid. Maybe you're not gay. Maybe you're a little bit gay. Maybe you're the straightest man who ever lived and you've just happened to fall in love with your crazy flatmate. Shit happens. It's really nobody's business but yours. And hopefully Sherlock's. And possibly the people who have put money in the pool at the office."

Blinking, trying to clear his eyes, John stares at Greg. When had he got so bloody smart? He puts his glass down and rubs his hands over his head irritably.

"Christ, John. You really are gone. You're even picking up his bad habits."

"What?" John looks around the table. Had he picked up a pack of cigarettes without realising it?!

Greg grabs his hand, stilling it. "Nothing, nothing. Just that thing you did with your hair. He does it when he's stressed."

John stares down at his hands as if they've betrayed him somehow. He fidgets, wants to run them through his hair again. _No_ , he mentally corrects himself. What he really wants is to run them through _Sherlock's_ hair. He sighs and stares at Greg, defeated.

"What'm I gonna do?"

As John puts his glass down, Greg pats him on the back.

"First things first, you're gonna sit here and eat something, before you fall over. We'll figure the rest out after that."

Pub food. On one hand, it's going to give him heartburn, going to be vaguely unpleasant, going to be bad for him tomorrow morning. On the other hand, it's going to be comforting, going to fill him up and soothe his wounds, and be exactly what he needs right now. John shakes his head. He's not even trying to pretend he's still thinking about the hamburger and chips Greg's just placed in front of him.

Methodically, he eats the greasy burger, washing it down with another pint. Greg sits in comfortable silence, idly watching the football game on the tv in the corner, leaving John to stew over his thoughts for a bit. It's nice just having him here though, not judging, just letting John work this mess out for himself.

How hadn't he realised this all sooner? Maybe he really is as oblivious as Greg had suggested. The most confusing part of this - by far - had been Sherlock's reaction. He hadn't pushed John away, hadn't mocked him or made some rude comment. Instead, Sherlock had let out a tiny, anticipatory moan, and his fingers had twitched at John's hip, as if itching to grasp him. It was almost as if Sherlock had been waiting eagerly for this moment, but had sensed John's confusion and apprehension, and held himself back.

Which, knowing what he knows about Sherlock, is probably exactly what had happened. He'd probably calculated every possible outcome in his head before John had even realised what the bloody hell he was doing.

And now John's here, avoiding his problems, as usual. This pub, or one like it, has been his usual escape when a date hasn't gone well, but this is different. How the hell is he supposed to go back home and admit that he's in love with Sherlock?

The thought hits him like a tonne of bricks. This isn't some weird crush, some strange experimental phase. He is utterly, unequivocally, painfully in love with Sherlock. Sherlock, with all his bad habits and black moods and bizarre chemical accidents. With his brilliant, improbable brain and his beautiful enthusiasm and his startling eyes. Christ, there's no denying it now.

And Sherlock knows, invariably. Well, the almost-kiss cemented the knowledge, but it's Sherlock, he was probably aware of it months before John realised any of this.

He finishes off yet another mysteriously appearing pint and turns to stare at Greg, who is smiling like some benevolent deity. Or possibly a cat. Is there such a thing as a benevolent cat deity? Probably not.

"I saw the lightbulb go on there. Figured yourself out yet?"

John stares at what's left of his food, smearing the vinegar around his plate with the end of a chip.

"I'm in _love_ with him, Greg. How the hell did that happen?" The voice that slips out of John is whiny and embarrassing, but Greg has the decency not to point it out.

Greg shrugs and grins. "While you weren't looking. That's usually how it goes, John. Spend your life chasing after something only to realise exactly what you need has been right in front of you the whole time."

John rolls his eyes and the room spins slightly. "You sound like th'announcer in a trailer for a t'rrible rom-com." His words are starting to slur.

Chuckling, Greg takes a sip of his Guinness. "That dreck sells for a reason. Now, the important question is: what are you going to do about it?"

"Do I have to do anything?" The question sounds stupid, even before John's finished uttering it. "No, no, don't even answer that. I'm a grown man. Why is this so complicated?"

"Because it's Sherlock? Because you're you?"

"Damn it, Greg. When did you get so insightful? You should quit the force and write a book."

Greg laughs again, but it's a bit broken and sad this time. "Yeah, I'm sure that'd sell well. Dating advice from a man whose wife made adultery into a professional sport."

At a loss for words, John reaches out and bumps Greg's shoulder with his fist. Like he needs to reassert his manliness.

"C'mon, John. I think you've had enough for tonight." Greg stands and pulls away from the table, standing behind John.

John stands up and the room spins slowly around him like a kiddie-park ride. It's not entirely unpleasant, just fuzzy and distracting. He smiles at Greg, squinting a little. Greg grins and lets John lean on him.

"You're going to tell him when you get home, aren't you?" Greg's voice isn't accusatory, he's just pointing out a fact.

John opens his mouth to answer and a hiccough escapes, chased by a giggle. "No. M'not. Don't need to."

There's a twinkle in Greg's eye. He gets it. "It's Sherlock. He already knows, doesn't he? You just needed to sort this shit out for yourself, didn't you?"

Staring at the six empty pint glasses and rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, John nods. "Obviously."


	2. Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow-up to the previous chapter, using the same format. Another 1895 words, same last word ;)

He's leaning over the microscope, ostensibly studying slides of fern spores. He's been staring at the same glass plate for at least ten minutes now, and the secrets of the universe have stubbornly refused to reveal themselves.

Why is John so infuriating sometimes? He’d finally taken the first step, coming so close to Sherlock, so painfully close, and then skittered away like a frightened fawn. Sherlock’s known how John feels for months now – likely longer than John himself has known. This time though, he’d let John move along at his own pace, have his ridiculous little moral crisis on his own time. But Sherlock’s tired of waiting.

Sherlock hears John before he sees him. The slightly unsteady gait, the moment of fumbling with his keys, the good-natured cursing as he trips over Mrs. Hudson's hideous little welcome mat. John is drunk, but pleasantly so. Sherlock might never admit it to anyone, but he quite likes John in this state. Friendly, flushed, giggling, and just this side of uninhibited.

Absently, Sherlock straightens the cuffs of his shirt just as John shuffles sheepishly in through the kitchen door. There are high points of bright red on his cheeks, so similar to the ones that had appeared when he'd nearly kissed Sherlock earlier, before he'd run off to the relative safety of the pub. Sherlock frowns slightly at the irrational hot-cold sensation flaring behind his sternum. It takes him a moment to realise that the feeling is jealousy, that he's vaguely angry that Lestrade got to see John like this. He grips the side of the kitchen table to settle himself.

"Welcome home, John."

John starts and stumbles slightly. "Oh. Hello!" He grins lopsidedly and Sherlock refuses to admit that the expression is responsible for the sudden uptick and erratic jerk in his pulse rate. Maybe it's time to schedule a thorough checkup with his doctor. A panicked laugh escapes Sherlock's lips at the unintentional joke.

"Sorry, Sherlock. I didn't see you there. Was gonna grab a drink from the fridge."

Sherlock grins nervously. "Water, I hope." Smoothly, he pulls away from the table and glides over to the refrigerator, chuckling as John slumps contentedly against the wall. He pours a glass of water and places it on the table within John's reach as he sits down, making sure to avoid any accidental contact. He keeps his gaze fixed pointedly on John's midsection, avoiding the temptation to glance up at his face, or down below his belt. His jumper is slightly rumpled, which only serves to drive Sherlock even further to distraction; he craves to rumple it further, to dump it on the kitchen floor.

John stares at the glass for a moment, then to Sherlock, then back to the glass, and back to Sherlock, as if he can't quite grasp that Sherlock was responsible for giving John something. It's comical and adorable. Suddenly John's expression turns to one of shock and he darts down the hall. Sherlock's debating running after him, unsure of what had set him off, when the tell-tale sound of an alarmingly strong stream of urine hitting the bowl emanates from the toilet. Sherlock finds himself relieved that he stayed put and laughs at John's inability to prioritise his needs when he's tipsy.

Bashful, John creeps back into the kitchen, drying his hands on his jeans. Sherlock chuckles nervously. Despite the relative unpleasantness of what John’s just been doing, the urge to stand and grab him, to finish what they'd nearly started before he ran off, is overpowering, and Sherlock fights to remain in his chair.

"Better?"

"Better." John nods and laughs, taking a large gulp of water from the glass Sherlock poured. "It sneaks up on you sometimes. The water's helping too." It's true; he looks a fair bit more alert and aware than he had at first. Sherlock fidgets, drums his fingers against the table, waiting for John's awareness to come crashing down on him now that he's slightly more sober.

For a moment, it looks as though that's exactly what's going to happen. There's a flicker of something even Sherlock can't quite place across John's features, and Sherlock nearly manages to convince himself that if won't actually matter if John runs off again.

Ever the surprising one, though, John lowers himself into the chair facing Sherlock's, and hesitantly stretches his hand out, resting it on the table halfway between them. Sherlock could reach out and take it, were he so inclined. He might, yet. For now though, he just studies it. John's hands are strong and solid, dusted with fine gold hair that would be invisible were it not for the fluorescent lights above them. Nails short but tidy. Reliable, warm hands. Solid. Skilled. Comforting.

"Sherlock?"

He snaps his attention back to John's face.

"You okay?"

"Fine, fine. Why wouldn't I be? Of course I'm fine."

John cocks his head slightly, his expression making it plain he doesn't believe Sherlock one bit. Why, of all times, is John choosing this particular moment to be clever and insightful?

"Sherlock..." John's fingers twitch, reaching out to Sherlock's, and impulsively Sherlock makes up the distance, their fingers just meeting across the scarred surface of the table. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have done what I did."

Now it's Sherlock's turn to cock his head. "Which part? Nearly kissing me, or leaving without finishing the job?"

The teasing tone in Sherlock's voice must help John regain his footing, because in a fraction of a second he is himself again, flirty and clever and wonderful.

"That depends, I suppose. Which part should I be apologising for?"

"The latter. Definitely the latter. Although, there is the massive oversight of having left the former far too long. You should have been nearly kissing me ages ago."

It is unquantifiably, indescribably wonderful, watching John shift from hesitant to cocky like this, and know that finally it is for Sherlock, not for some distracting, boring woman. The fact that he is unable to put his feelings into words should annoy Sherlock, but somehow he just feels warm and giddy and somehow not himself and very much himself all at once.

Unable to wait any longer, Sherlock stands up in his chair and steps around the table. John mirrors him, apparently without taking a moment to think about it. The space between them feels charged, crackling with tension, and suddenly Sherlock feels oddly wrong-footed. It's John who makes the next move, stepping into that void, that chasm of electricity holding them so far apart.

They are close enough that Sherlock can feel John's breath - warm, damp, rapid - on his throat. Sherlock peers down slightly, to find John looking up at him with an expression of unguarded awe. Without thinking, Sherlock slides one hand around John, settling at the small of his back. His thumb slips up under John's jumper, stroking the thin cotton of the shirt beneath, and John's breath hitches slightly.

"This..." John stammers, tongue darting out over his lip. "You're - I mean - this is okay?" John's eyes are wide and dark and unfathomably blue and if Sherlock were more poetic he'd probably be getting lost in their depths, but that's a ridiculous notion. Pushing the absurd thoughts out of his head, Sherlock smiles and cups John's jaw - lovely and roughened with the day's stubble - with his free hand and tips John's face up to meet his own. This kiss is gentle and tentative, Sherlock merely brushing his lips across John's, so warm and soft and inviting. He smiles against John's mouth, pulling back before he's overcome with the urge to do anything more. John's eyebrows are still raised in silent question.

"Am I okay with this?" Sherlock smirks, dragging his lips gently towards John's condyloid process. He scrapes his teeth gently across the skin just below John's jaw, eliciting a full-body shiver. Sherlock then runs his tongue along the outer edge of John's ear, his voice a breathy murmur. "Use what I've taught you. Deduce."

John's hands find their way to Sherlock's waist and grip him tightly, just this side of painful. It feels possessive and pedestrian and utterly glorious. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that John has finally come to terms with the fact that Sherlock _wants_ this. Wants _him_.

Sherlock's eyelids slide closed, and for a moment he fights with himself to keep them open, to not miss a single experience, but John so close to him is nearly overwhelming and eventually he permits his eyes to stay shut. It allows him to better concentrate on the responsiveness of John's mouth, now pressing against his own. He gasps slightly and John takes advantage, slipping his tongue briefly between Sherlock's parted lips.

The kiss deepens, Sherlock meeting John's tongue with his own, curious and exploratory. John's lips are like his hands - compact and practical-looking but skilled and crafty and comforting. They fit well together, from hip to mouth, and while Sherlock should find this surprising, he doesn't. It makes perfect sense, really.

Just as Sherlock is becoming acclimatised to the experience of John Watson kissing him deeply and hungrily, it stops. There is an awful tearing feeling in Sherlock's chest, as though something he's had forever has suddenly gone missing, and he realises he's panicking. Has John changed his mind?

Sherlock's blindsided by the overwhelming shock and relief brought on by John's lips and tongue, sucking fiercely on his throat, just where his collar's pulling open. It's inevitably going to leave a bruise, and Sherlock looks forward to showing it off as soon as possible. John's sudden forcefulness sends rush after thrumming rush of blood to Sherlock's cock, and it feels like an embarrassingly short time before he's rock hard and uncomfortable in his tight trousers.

There's a bit of a backwards scramble as John - somehow, despite everything Sherlock knows to be true, suddenly taller than Sherlock and incredibly imposing - looms large and guides Sherlock up against the wall of the hallway. In a feeble attempt to reassert his dominance, Sherlock's hand finds its way to the front of John's jeans. John's prick is hot and heavy and hard, twitching reflexively as Sherlock cups his palm against it.

Sherlock had thought this would all feel awkward and slightly confusing, but his body seems to know exactly what to do. His fingertips stroke the length of John's erection through his jeans, dragging lightly up and down either side of his zip, and John lets out a breathy, needy moan. Sherlock immediately forms a new catalogue in his head - sounds he (and only he) can draw from John.

"D'you--" John pants, gasping for breath as Sherlock's thumb unerringly strokes the head of his cock through his jeans. "D'you think... maybe..." He is gold and flushed and dusky and perfect. Sherlock feels a wave of pride that he did this, he put John in this state, and a pang of something deeper. The knowledge, perhaps, that he's going to get to do it again, whenever the whim strikes him.

John, trembling, gently guides Sherlock's hand away from his crotch. "God, you're a bloody distraction. You think we should move into the bedroom?" John looks down, suddenly bashful, and Sherlock strokes his cheek. "If, I mean, that's... if you want to?"

Sherlock leans in close, intently pressing his own confined erection into the soft warmth of John's belly.

"Obviously."


End file.
